Ralph admires the view of the sky through the branches, enjoying the dappled sunlight on his face. He’s got this face of a cartoon villain. No one who’s really evil would have a face like that. Only in the old movies. And not even a trace of gray in his hair, not a hint of a bald patch, even though he’s been working here for . . . what, thirteen years? At least. Iron Man.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s assume you don’t know. Let’s hear what you think. What is it they fear? What are they trying to run from?”
I shrug. “I don’t think it’s a question of fear. They’re being squeezed out. The First is good at that. And not only the First . . .”
I can’t stop myself in time because I remember Smoker. His name could have been right there on that piece of paper without even that much of an effort from us. But then, we’re not Pheasants.
“Who are you thinking about?” Ralph perks up. He has this goofy look, like a bloodhound that finally has picked up the scent.
“Smoker. You can add him to your list if you’d like.”
“Oh. I see . . .”
R One goes silent and pensive.
I probably shouldn’t have told him about Smoker. Counselors are unpredictable creatures. You never know how they are going to interpret the information you give them. On the other hand, I doubt that my mentioning Smoker could do us any real harm.
“Do you remember much of the last graduation?”
I wince. There are things that just aren’t mentioned. Rope in the hanged man’s house and all that. Ralph knows this as well as I do.
“No,” I say. “Very little. Only the night in the biology classroom. We were locked in it. Almost nothing of the morning. Bits of it. Here and there.”
He flicks away the cigarette.
“Were you expecting something different?”
“Probably. I myself wasn’t expecting anything at all.”
To get up and leave now would be impolite. Even though it’s the most logical thing to do. I’m very uncomfortable with the whole setup, my head being at the level of his knees. So I move onto the bench next to him.
“You are a Jumper, aren’t you?”
I look Ralph in the face. He is completely out of all imaginable and even unimaginable bounds. What did I do to provoke this? Actually answered his questions? That might be it. Anyone else in my place would just tell him to get lost. There are countless ways of doing it without resorting to open insolence. Ralph wouldn’t bat an eye if I were to say “What was that? A jumper? How do you mean? Do I look like a kangaroo to you?” He’s most likely expecting exactly that. But as I run through the possible responses in my head, each feels more repulsive to me than the last. It’s better to simply tell him to go to hell. But I can’t do that, now can I. Because last winter when we sent Blind to him, asking him to find out at least something about Noble, he didn’t tell us to go to hell. He didn’t feign surprise. He didn’t even tell us off for being impertinent. He went who knows where and did so much more there than we ever could have hoped. If I played dumb right now and started prattling about kangaroos I’d lose all respect for myself, however much I have left of it.
“Yes, I’m a Jumper. Why?”
Ralph is stunned. He looks at me with his mouth hanging open, searching for words.
“You sound very calm about it.”
“I am not calm,” I say. “I’m nervous. I’m just not showing it.”
“But other . . . ,” he stumbles and continues, “people like you never talk about it.”
“Because I’m a bad Jumper. Defective.”
Ralph freezes, his eyes glinting hungrily. He thinks he’s found something incredibly valuable while rummaging in a dumpster, and can’t quite believe his luck.
“Bad, what’s that mean?”
That’s when I realize that I probably need this conversation even more than he does. Because no one ever asks you about obvious things. Or things that seem obvious.
I lean back and close my eyes. The sun is directly in my face. A good excuse for not looking at the person you’re talking to.
“I don’t like it.”
I don’t need to look at him to see how surprised he is, and I answer his next question before he gets it out.
“I don’t Jump. You don’t have to do something only because you can. And you don’t have to like doing it either.”
I open my eyes and see him not even breathing, as if his breath might somehow spook me.
“It happened to me on that very morning,” I say. “For the first time, and for six years. When I woke up and they brought me a mirror, it wasn’t that I got scared of my bald head, as everyone assumed. I was scared to see a little boy there. Because I was no longer him. If you can imagine that, you’ll understand why I haven’t Jumped since then.”
“Are you saying that ever since that time . . .”
“Yes, ever since that time. I haven’t and I’m not planning to. Unless it happens by itself. A nervous shock, a sudden fright. That kind of thing leads to Jumping sometimes. Isn’t it the same with you?”
“I’ve never . . . ,” he begins.
“Of course you have. You just forgot. People forget it very quickly.”
